


Temporary Bliss

by DarkAbyss



Category: Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), DCU (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Bloodplay, Bondage, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, Love/Hate, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Rough Sex, Swearing, This is One of the Most Fucked Up Things I've ever written, Torture, Torture as Foreplay, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23721241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkAbyss/pseuds/DarkAbyss
Summary: “Jesus Christ. He was so messed up. But, at least for that moment, it was alright. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, not while the Copy touching him like that, full of raw, lustful desire that was as strong as the violence of each gesture he delivered. Licking, kissing, sucking, biting. When they were so entangled in each other, wanting the demon and wanting himself just as he was, with all the cracks and the rot, became easier than breathing.”[Warning: dark themes ahead. Mind the tags. Reader discretion is advised.]
Relationships: John Constantine & Demon Constantine, John Constantine/John Constantine, John Constantine/demon John Constantine
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24





	Temporary Bliss

**Author's Note:**

> I'll confess that I have no real idea of where this came from and that I hadn't planned for _this_ to be my first Hellblazer/Constantine related piece of writing. I had started with the idea of writing a torture scene, to fit it in a larger plot, but things took a twist in a completely unexpected direction.
> 
> Very dark themes ahead, so read at your own discretion!
> 
> I'm blaming a certain friend of mine for convincing me to post it (and I also want to thank her for shipping this fucked up pairing with me).

Everything felt numb. Or at least he thought it did. His mind was a muddle of distant sensations, past and present, mixing together with the endless possibilities of what he might have experienced next. Time was a hard concept to grasp in that moment, while he was lost in a trip worse than the ones any sort of drug had ever gifted him. It made him wonder if that was how omniscience felt like. Perceiving it all at once, what had been and what was happening in every layer of reality, and also tasting everything that was lying ahead, waiting to become. Most likely it was _not_ , even though, if that had been how God experienced his creations, it would have explained why the universe, in all his shapes and forms, was so badly fucked up.

John blinked slowly, trying and failing to clear his sight. There was something warm dripping in his eyes, sweat or blood or a mixture of both. Whatever it was, he couldn’t blink it away, no matter how hard he tried. He had experienced dissociation before, but that was a whole new level even for him. Perhaps his current dulled state was due to the blood loss he had endured. Or maybe his brain had simply decided that it couldn’t take it anymore and had shut down, leaving him suspended in a limbo, knowing that he should have been in an atrocious pain and yet being unable to feel it. At least, not in the way he should have.

All of a sudden, the blade was back on him, relentless and merciless, cutting a long line along his side, and partially snapping him out of his daze. He could feel its sharp edge tearing at his flesh, but it was pure _sensation_ , something that went beyond words, that he couldn’t describe even inside his thoughts. Was it supposed to hurt? Hell yes, especially considering the hot stream that was now running along his skin, soaking his already completely ruined trousers. The bastard had cut deep, _again_ , and that wound would have become the umpteenth nasty addition to his vast collection of scars if he hadn’t stitched it up properly in the aftermath. There was only this much that his tainted blood could do to heal him without consequences. That always assuming that there would have been an “after” to that seemingly endless present he was living in.

He hissed as a hand roughly tugged at his hair, forcing him to tilt his head backwards and bare his neck. He had almost felt the burn on his scalp. _Almost_. What he didn’t miss, instead, was the wet warmth of a tongue lapping at his skin, sucking off the redness that had dripped down from his temple and jaw, followed by a trail of sharp nips. There was another hand on his chest, fingers digging into his wounds, coaxing more blood out of them. The sensation was unpleasant, invasive, sickening. It made him want to throw up and yet the sound that left his throat, echoing in his ears like a thunder, was one of pure bliss.

“Bloody ‘ell, ‘ow friggin’ _fucked up_ are yeh? A bloody steamin’ pile o’ sad shite.”

The mouth that had been working on his neck was suddenly pressed against his ear, whispering the words straight into his skin. It sent shivers running along Constantine’s spine, even if he tried to ignore them and gritted his teeth instead. Despite himself, though, he couldn’t help leaning into the warmth of his tormentor’s body. It was hot and solid, the exact opposite of how he was feeling in that very moment. A trembling mess completely disconnected from anything that wasn’t the knife carving his flesh and the being brandishing it.

“Sh…Shut th’ fuck up, yeh soddin’ cunt,” he managed to spit out, but his voice shook as slightly too sharp teeth bit into his earlobe. His legs had been threatening to give out for a while and by now he would have already collapsed, hadn’t he been chained up to the wall. “ _F-Fuck_! As if yeh weren’t… _Ah!_ …gettin’ off yehself, yeh bloody prick!”

“Oh, ne’er said ‘m not. ‘M gettin’ off jus’ _fine_ ‘ere, John,” the Other chuckled. His voice was a darker echo of John’s own, thick with amusement and arousal. He had hated it so much and for so long, but in that moment it mostly turned him on, in ways and with an intensity that shouldn’t have been possible in his current state. “N’ ‘m sure yeh can _feel_ it, aye?”

The magician tried to snort, but the sound got caught in his throat as his captor pressed their hips together, slowly grinding into him. His head dropped back against the wall with a dull thud, lips parting in a quiet moan that echoed the Copy’s much louder grunt. Yes, he could definitely feel it just fine, and the contact had also reminded him of how hard he was in turn. _Painfully_ so, since it seemed that his traitorous brain had no issue with perceiving _that_ peculiar kind of ache. He should have been ashamed, even horrified, but in truth he was far too interested in chasing after his climax, one way or another, to give a damn. Besides, it wasn’t like there was anyone there who could have judge him.

“Yeh’re so full o’ it, Maker. So fuckin’ full,” the Other spoke again and his mouth was back tormenting his neck, biting hard enough to draw more blood and leave bruises on his far too pale skin. He had let go of Constantine’s blond locks, certain that the latter would have kept the awkward angle of his head even without prompting, and his hand was now working between them, undoing their belts. “Yeh soddin’ self-righteous prick. Always talkin’ shite o’ demons n’ th’ likes o’ ‘em, but yeh’re jus’ as fuckin’ twisted as they are. If not more. Bloody _hypocrite_.”

A weak chuckle escaped the magician’s lips. “Yeh might…wanna take tha’ back, mate. ‘Cause, if tha’s wha’ _I_ am, den… _yeh_ ain’t any be’er,” he snapped back, breathlessly. Gods, if the bastard didn’t stop teasing and didn’t hurry up, he would have burst and not in the way he was hoping for. “Yeh n’ me…We kind o’ are th’ same bloody person, aye? Or did yeh forget tha’ for a moment, John?”

The Copy huffed out a laugh and pushed his fingers back in the cut on his side, making sure to go deep enough to cause some damage. Or at least, deep enough to damage anyone who didn’t have the perks of the curse that flooded in John’s veins. He then reached out, temporarily abandoning the task of getting rid of their trousers and underwear, much to the magician’s frustration, and grabbed his Maker’s chin, hard and firm. The grin that opened on his face as he leant in to lick away the blood that had crusted around the man’s eyes was anything but reassuring, all teeth and dark intent.

“Couldn’t forget it even if I fuckin’ wanted to. N’ believe me, I _did_ try,” he claimed with a satisfied hum, moving away just enough to be able to look into those identical, hazed blue orbs. “Yeh made sure of tha’, yeh fuckin’ prick. N’ I ‘ated yeh for it. Oh, if I ‘ated yeh. Still do.” Their mouths brushed, a gesture that was _almost_ gentle and definitely in strong contrast with everything else that had passed between them till that very moment. “Tho, now I wanna _wreck_ yeh in a completely different way.”

“Lucky me,” John sneered, but his tone was more teasing than sarcastic. He blinked, once, finally managing to put the shape of the Other’s face into focus. The smirk, full of threats that made his knees going even weaker. The patches of rotten skin that spoke of desolated lands and pools of sulphur. And the smell, a mixture of his own and that very peculiar stench that was Hell’s and Hell’s alone. _Fuck_. He was messed up, most likely beyond repair, but he wanted it all. Ugly, diseased, damned for eternity.

When the Copy’s mouth clashed against his own, he pushed back, as hard as he could, sinking in a kiss that was nothing but teeth and tongue and violence. It didn’t take long before fresh blood started to drip down his chin, mixing with the trails of saliva. His arms pulled, helplessly, at the chains that were holding him in place, as he struggled to get closer, chasing every bad, insanely exciting sensation, like a drowning man fighting to get yet another mouthful of oxygen.

“Get a bloody move, yeh bastard, or I swear, John…‘m gonna find a way to magic these fuckin’ restrains off n’…yeh ain’t gonna like wha’ ‘appens next,” he growled once they had broken apart, two pairs of blown pupils finding each other. His lips curled in a satisfied grin as he spotted a deep cut on his demonic self’s bottom lip. That was where all the blood was coming from then. A small victory, that might have looked insignificant compared to the extent of his own injuries, but that still scored him a point in their endless struggle for dominance.

“Tha’ a promise?” The Copy shot back, smugger than ever. It was taunting, defiant, but the words only caused the magician’s smirk to widen. The bastard might be enjoying the ride, having him at his mercy, but he knew very well how much the Other liked it when he pushed him down on the ground, tore his clothes off and fucked him raw, over and over and over, until he was reduced to an incoherent mess. So much for all his demonic strength and power. Deep down, he was just as eager to be _helpless_ in John’s clutches, to be his to use.

What a delight it had been, when it had turned out that it was a very much mutual feeling.

Blue eyes narrowed, slyly, as Constantine pushed his hips forward, as much as his restrains allowed him, trying to get some relief. “‘S up to yeh, mate. Fuck me into oblivion n’ I might _show_ yeh later.”

“Oh, Johnny. ‘Ow _cute_ o’ yeh. Thinkin’ yeh can gimme orders even while yeh’re at me mercy,” the Other mused, shifting away enough to deny the magician the contact was seeking. They would have got there, soon enough, but first he wanted to torment his Maker for a bit longer. Especially since the man, despite all his bossing, seemed perfectly willing to play along. “Always so _cocky_. Yeh fuckin’ prat. Tha’ kind o’ attitude ‘s gonna land yeh in troubles yeh can’t dig yehself out o’, sooner or later. Yeh know tha’, aye? I wonder woh yeh’ll do when it ‘appens…”

His thumb slowly traced Constantine’s bottom lip and he let out a pleased hum as the latter readily sucked it in his mouth, tongue curling around it. What a wonder they were, the two of them. As in tune with each other’s darkest sides and desires as only two beings who shared the same mind could be. And how much time they had wasted, fighting and trying to get rid each other, when they could have been doing _this_ since the very start. It might not bring him the same thrill he had felt while torturing the magician into madness, but it was much more intoxicating. It fed, at the same time, their hate and self-loathing, their strong vein of borderline narcissistic selfishness, and their deep desperation to be seen and accepted as they were, flaws and vices and rotten soul. And if that wasn’t _love_ , even if a twisted, dark kind of it, then it was hard to imagine what else it could be.

When the Copy took his bloody fingers away from his face, John made sure to let go of his thumb with a wet pop, gaining a fresh grunt of appreciation from the Other. His mind was starting to sway once again, his focus slipping away now that their banter had died down. Oh, he would have loved to talk back and he knew exactly what kind of retort he could have offered, but he also well aware of how much they both enjoyed having the last word. And, if that was the sacrifice required from him so that he could gain what he wanted, he was more than ready to make it. He would have had all the time to get back at the fucker later, when the tables would have been turned.

The tactic seemed to work, because his demonic self’s hands fell down between their bodies once again, finally finishing to undo the magician’s trousers and shoving them down together with his underwear. Constantine’s eyes rolled back in his skull as the fabric rubbed against his neglected, far too hard cock. It wasn’t enough to bring him any sort of relief, but it didn’t fail to feed his arousal even more. Gods, he was almost ready to _beg_ , as unwise as that would have been, just to get those fingers wrapped around him.

That last thought had to have somehow showed on his face because, when his gaze met the Other’s once again, the asshole was smirking widely, wicked as a bloody black cat who had got its ration of magical cream on the night of Samhain. John opened his mouth, eager to offer some snarky comment, but the words turned into a muffled sound, of both surprise and protest, as his demonic self anticipated him and roughly shoved three fingers down his throat, watching him coughing and gagging around them.

“Be’er work on ‘em properly, Johnny, like th’ good lil whore yeh are. ‘Cause yeh know where they’re gonna end up, aye?” The Copy mocked and the laughed that left his lips only raised in volume when the magician bit down, too hard for comfort, on his fingers. Constantine was right, they were the same person, and the man’s current position showed far too well how much they could enjoy pain, under the right circumstances.

John tried to talk again, not caring if his voice turned into a mess of incomprehensible sounds. However, the look on his face spoke louder than any words could have and it made it clear that, whatever thought was currently crossing his mind, was anything but flattering for his demonic self. Two could play that game and, if the Other was aiming to drive him crazy by making him wait, he was more than content to return the favour. He knew exactly what made his Other tick, how to rile him up with every stroke of tongue. He knew exactly how to make him wish it was his dick, and not just his fingers, shoved as deeply as physically possible down his throat.

The mental image caused his own breath to hitch as he forced his jaw to relax, tilting his head to find a better angle before getting to work. He could picture him so easily, the Copy melting the chains that were trapping him with a snap of fingers, like the fucking show-off he was, and then slamming him down on his already bruised knees, both hands pressed against his nape, fingers tangled in his blond locks tightly, keeping him in place. The scenario got so vivid, so _real_ in contrast with the general numbness he was floating into, that he could almost feel the merciless pushing of his demonic self’s hips, forcing him to take and take and take, until he had been turned into a filthy mess of tears, saliva, sweat, cum and blood.

His unfocused eyes stung, demanding to be allowed to slide close, but he forced himself to ignore the unpleasant feeling and kept them locked in the Other’s identical ones, clinging to every little shift that flashed in his expression to prevent himself from slipping away once again. But Hell, it was hard not to, when the temptation to just give in and get once again lost into pure physical sensation was strong to the point of being overwhelming. The burning in his lungs for the too little oxygen he was allowed to breathe in. The warm, metallic taste of the Copy’s flesh. The scrapping of the nails against the back of his throat. The solid weight of those fingers on his tongue. And the maddening brushing of his demonic self’s free hand against his lower abdomen, close but not enough, never enough, to where he wanted it.

Constantine’s teeth sank back in the fingers he was sucking, watching with a mixture of frustration and lust as the Other’s head fell back in response. The bastard was touching himself, pumping his cock at the same unsteady rhythm of John’s own tongue and showing no intention of wanting to touch him too. It should have made him furious and most likely it was, but in that moment telling the difference between the sort of heats that flared up through his feverish body was almost impossible. They all ended up pooling in his groin anyway.

With a strength he didn’t know he had, he jerked his head on one side, in an almost successful attempt to spit out the fingers. His nape collided against the wall, his mind once again registering the impact but not the pain that should have come with it. Had the circumstances been different, the smug look he got in response to his attempt might have caused him to pause and rethink his course of action, but he was past caring. He was past every bloody thing and he couldn’t have given less of a damn if the words that were about to leave his lips would have cost him endless, merciless mockery later.

“ _Enough_ , yeh tosser! Get th’ fuck on wit’ it!” He hissed through gritted teeth, pulling at his chains. His wrists were sore, bruised for the many times the metal had sunk in his flesh, but all he could feel was the pressure of the restrains that were keeping him from touching, tugging, scratching. “Woh is it tha’ yeh want from me? Want me to _beg_ , yeh fuckin’ prick?! _Fine_. Dis ‘s me fuckin’ beggin’ for it! Pretty fuckin’ _please_ , stop foolin’ th’ fuck around n’ get inside me, before I do somet’in’ we’ll bot’ regret!”

The Copy rolled his eyes. “Tha’ ain’t soundin’ like beggin’ at all, yeh know? Yeh fuckin’ bossy _twat_ ,” he talked back with a scoff, sneering at the man. “We really gotta work on yeh sweet talk’, luv, ‘cause yeh’re _truly_ gobshite at it.”

His voice was mostly calm, but his breathing was much quicker than it had been just a few minutes before and his pupils were visibly dilated, eyes continuously running up and down along the magician’s devastated body. The knowledge that he had been the one to leave every cut, every bruise, every mark sent new, euphoric waves of hunger through his system. His wet fingers kept twitching, needing to be somewhere inside John, again, one way or the other. He would have never admitted it, at least not while he was the one holding the reins, but there was something insanely _hot_ in having his Marker being such a stubborn asshole. Screaming like he owned everything and everyone even when he was tied up, bloody and defenceless. That arrogance had used to irk him beyond words, it still did, but at the same time it made him _blaze_ in a way that had nothing to do with the anger.

A dark look crossed his face. Perhaps Constantine was right, whether he liked it or not. They had fooled around for long enough and it was time to remind his Maker who had the upper hand there, to whom he had sworn to belong. And to make sure that he wouldn’t have forgotten that night and all its meaning for a very long time.

He moved in the blink of an eye and, before the man could even realise what was happening, he had hoisted him up, pressing him fully against the wall, using his own body to keep him in place. He laughed, low and dark, at the gasp that left John’s lips and even more at the way it turned into a sharp chocking sound as he wrapped his dry fingers around the magician’s throat, tight enough to make it hard for him to breath. His other hand was just as quick to find its own target too and there was no more teasing, just as demanded. Oh, Constantine would have bitched about it late, but they both knew that he wanted it _exactly_ that way. Hard and fast and with not even the slightest hint of gentleness. A punishment for his sins that came in the form of a painfully built bliss.

“ _Bloody fuckin’ ‘ell_!” John screamed, or at least tried to, since most of his voice was cut off by the vicious grip that was crushing his windpipe.

No matter how many times they did it, no matter how deeply fucked up the situation could get, he would have never got used to the burn of those fingers mercilessly breaching him, one after the other, too roughly and too quickly, the moisture of his saliva doing almost nothing to make the process smoother. It was pure torture, but the thought of demanding that they used something more appropriate than spit or, damn, _blood_ had never crossed his mind. Not once, not even when the sensation brought back the still far too vivid memories of the hell he had grown up in. The twist in his stomach that the sensation added just made it all more intense and reminded him of the one, _vital_ difference between the present and the past. Back then, he had been helpless to escape the torture he had been forced to endure, unable to fight back even when it was ripping him apart from the inside. Now, he was choosing it, demanding, craving the pain, the roughness, the invasion. And, in his eyes, the fact that he could get so much pleasure out of it was the biggest middle finger he could have ever shown to the bastard who had broken him for the very first time, setting him on a path that would have eventually landed him in a more literal Hell.

His shoulders shook, a breathless laughter forcing its way out of his sore throat. Jesus Christ. He was so messed up. But, at least for that moment, it was alright. He wouldn’t have wanted it any other way, not while the Copy touching him like that, full of raw, lustful desire that was as strong as the violence of each gesture he delivered. Licking, kissing, sucking, biting. When they were so entangled in each other, wanting the demon and wanting _himself_ just as he was, with all the cracks and the rot, became easier than breathing.

Then the Copy slammed inside him, without any warning or finesse, his mouth covering John’s own, devouring fiercely and hungrily, as if he had been trying to consume his soul, and Constantine was utterly lost once again, sucked away in that eternal present made of no thought and pure, totalising sensation.

His back was grinding against the stone of the wall, bounced at the ruthless rhythm that his demonic self had quickly built. His wounds were bleeding again and he could almost physically feel the energy slipping out of him together with the blood. The Other’s tongue was down his throat, sucking on his own with growing desperation and making it even harder for him to breathe, while his teeth ruthlessly tortured John’s lips. The chain were cutting through his flesh again, threatening to slit his wrists at every rough thrust. His lungs were burning, craving the oxygen he was being denied. His head was too light to be healthy, too light to be safe. He could taste violence and death and Hell, their stench invading his nostrils, dark and revolting and oh-so-intoxicating.

He blinked once, realising that his eyes had remained wide open, lost in the void, and he found identical blue orbs staring back at him. A gaze as dazed and utterly wasted as his own had to be and yet somehow locked on him, staring straight past his flesh, down at his soul and at the magic that was tightly wrapped around it. Focused, relentless, single-minded. Looking at John as if the magician had been a hellish version of the bloody Holy Grail he _had_ to get his hands on. It was flattering, in a perverse way, but from his part, Constantine was almost too shamelessly eager to give himself out like a cheap prize.

The lips pressed against his curled in a brief smirk and a moment later there was a hand wrapped around his cock, matching the merciless rhythm of the hips pounding against him, and the magician’s focus on the world shrank even more. It was unbelievable how both satisfying and vexing being touched by someone who knew exactly how you liked it could be. Someone who knew exactly how to twist their wrist just in the right way, how much pressure to apply with their fist, the right moment when to tease the head or the slit. It had the same precision of masturbating, but it was much more than just that. More arousing, more exciting, and it also made him feel much more open and vulnerable. It demanded from him a trust he hadn’t known he could still be capable of.

All those notions, however, were nothing but vague ghosts in John’s mind, because the Copy had literally and effectively fucked every coherent thought out of him in the very same moment when he had started to finger him, a second or a century before. It was hard to tell when trying to think about time felt like drowning in thick treacle. So, instead of contemplating once again how damaged he was, how damaged _they_ were, John just pushed himself down to meet his demonic self’s thrusts, struggling to keep up with their growing speed and strength, and attempting, at the same time, to fuck into the Other’s fist. The movements, however, required far too much coordination, and energy he didn’t have while he was still dripping blood all over them both and chocking in the Copy’s far too steady grip, and he ended up writhing in that tight, merciless embrace.

A low groan was torn out of his throat and he screwed his eyes shut. He felt like he was going completely insane, not for the first time. It was all too much. Too much inputs overwhelming his senses, too much pleasure building in his guts, too much pain he couldn’t feel but that still lingered at the borders of his shattering mind. It was all too fast, all too demanding. He couldn’t keep up, he couldn’t hold on, but he couldn’t stop either. His consciousness was fading in and out as his body was pushed past its limits, with his muscles strained beyond their capacity and too little blood left to keep his brain properly oxygenated. He was going to break, in any possible way and then some more, and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it from happening.

“ _Fuck_!” Was the first and only word that escaped his mouth, when the Other finally released it, and his head instantly fell back against the wall, leaving his throat bare for his demonic self to mark, adding more bruises and bloody bites to the collection he was already sporting.

One more thrust, a bit deeper than the previous, with a slightly different, slightly _righter_ angle. His orgasm hit him, hard and too intense, turning his reality firstly into a blinding flash of whiteness, pleasure wrecking his nerves in an almost painful shock of electricity, and then sinking him into complete darkness. The last thing he registered before passing out was the Copy’s hoarse voice in his ears, echoing the very same curse he had spat out few moments before, and the feeling of something hot filling him up. Then blissful nothingness.

**Ψ**

When he blinked awake, minutes or hours later, the first reality John became aware of was the _pain_. Bone-deep soreness that coursed through his whole body. His muscles were so stiff that he could hardly move. The deep cuts that littered his chest and abdomen were burning like hell, even if, thankfully, they had stop bleeding. His head hurt in several spots, most likely from all the times he had banged it against the wall, and his back was killing him. His throat was sore, and too dry for comfort, and his arms felt heavy by his sides, bruised wrists stinging angrily. Not to mention the burn and the ache coming from his abused ass.

_Bloody hell._

He let his eyes slip closed once again almost immediately, too exhausted to keep them properly open. At least he wasn’t hanging from that damned wall anymore, he realised after a few moments, once his brain had managed to wake up enough to register something that wasn’t the pain. He was half sprawled on the ground, back pressed against what he guessed being the Copy’s chest. There was an arm thrown around his torso and his sides were caged by the Other’s bent legs. His demonic self’s other hand was moving on his skin, tracing the cuts a bit too roughly, and his mouth was laced on the magician’s neck, nipping and sucking on the already damaged flesh. Marking him over and over.

“Yeh look like ‘Ell, Maker. Fuckin’ smell like ‘Ell too,” the bastard hummed as soon as he noticed that the man had regained consciousness. His voice was dripping smugness, but there was an odd, soothing note in it. His tongue traced the line of John’s jaw, seemingly unbothered by the coarseness of the stubble, and then moved to tease his earlobe. “ _Eheh_. A fuckin’ rubbish bag. A chesspite o’ steamin’ gobshite. Friggin’ _disgustin’_.”

Constantine snorted, wishing that he could have turned around and punched the Other’s in the guts, but his body refused to cooperate, leaving him with no other alternative if not lying helplessly in his demonic self’s embrace. At least the asshole was warm enough to heat up his icy, sticky skin. Gods, he needed a shower, a dozen drinks, a stick of Silk Cuts and a nap. Not necessarily in that order.

“Ah, n’ whose fault ‘s tha’, nh? Yeh bloody wanker,” he shot back, his voice low and hoarse. He couldn’t deny the Copy’s words, not when he had to look at least as bad as he was feeling. Most likely worse. Even talking, even _breathing_ hurt. And yet, at the same time, he felt completely sated and content, as he rarely did. Another piece of evidence to prove how messed up he was.

The words gained him a loud laugh, the sound echoing in his sore skull and forcing him to bite back a wince. His expression, however, quickly slacked, a moan of both pleasure and protest escaping his lips as clever fingers moved to toy with his still too sensitive nipples.

“Didn’t ‘ear yeh complainin’ while I was fuckin’ th’ lil sanity yeh gots left outta yeh,” the demon commented with a shrug, his casual tone holding a clear hint of teasing. With one last pinch, his hand released the sensitive bud it had been tormenting in favour of cupping the magician’s jaw, forcing him to turn and lift his head up so that they could look at each other. “Oh no. Yeh were _so_ eager, Johnny. Wantin’ more n’ more, aye? Demandin’ tha’ I went deeper, even while I was _cuttin’_ yeh up. Such a fuckin’ nutjob yeh are. ‘Ow yeh’re still alive ‘s a real mystery. Good t’in’ yeh are, tho. Means I can mess yeh up like dis e’ery time I please.” A sharp bite on the man’s cheek. “ _Me_ nutjob.”

Despite the strain that the position was forcing on his neck, John chuckled, blue eyes glinting in amusement. “ _Aw_ , look at yeh. Th’ bad, cruel, untouchable ‘ellish motherfucker going’ fuckin’ _soft_ on oul me. Who’s _disgustin’_ now?” He mocked, but then struggled with his own uncooperative limbs until he managed to lift an arm and hook it around his demonic self’s neck. His gaze moved downwards, briefly taking in the state of his naked body. “Bloody ‘ell. Chas‘s gonna ‘ave a fuckin’ ‘eart attack if he sees me like dis.”

The Copy rolled his eyes at him, but for once he didn’t talk back. Instead, he allowed the man to pull him down in a tired and yet still hungry, heated kiss. He would have been lying if he had denied that Constantine had a point there. Despite all the roughness that came with their special, fucked up kind of intimacy, Gods, they _loved_ being together. Even just like that, sharing each other’s space in the aftermath, making out like two horny teenagers who preferred letting their actions speak in place of their words.

“Aye. Be’er wait to ‘ead back. Till yeh pussy feel a bit be’er. Wouldn’t wanna accidentally off our best n’ only mate, aye?” He joked back once their mouths had separated, the kiss leaving them both slightly breathless. “Might fuck yeh a second time while we’re at it.” His lips curled in an ugly smirk and his hand dropped down from John’s face, landing on his inner thigh, mere inches away from the man’s groin. “But dun worry, luv. ‘M gonna skip th’ _foreplay_ dis time. Yeh’re a fuckin’ wreck, no way yeh can take it. Bet yeh gonna love takin’ me prick, tho. Aye, John? Fuckin’ masochist. _Insatiable_.”

“Pot, kettle, black, _arsehole_ ,” was Constantine’s biting comeback and his grip around the Other’s neck tightened as much as his sore muscles allowed it. The words, however, had sent a shiver down his spine, spreading a new spark of heat in his lower abdomen, which was fuelled even more by the nails scratching his skin. His fingers buried themselves in the Copy’s blond hair and he tugged it harshly. “I know woh yeh doin’ ‘ere. Yeh tosser ain’t foolin’ anyone. I see rite through yeh. Yeh jus’ wanna rile me up, so _I_ ’ll be th’ one to fuck tha’ rotten brain of yehs outta yeh thick skull next time.”

His demonic self’s arm tightened around his middle, possessively, and he could feel the Other’s muscles twitch in anticipation, as the latter spoke. “Oh, Johnny. ‘Ow can I say no when yeh’re such a bloody charmer?”

It was John’s turn to roll his eyes this time and then he pulled the Copy down in another bruising kiss, to wipe away the smugness that had once again filled the demon’s expression. Cocky bastard, patented motherfucker, nasty piece of work. Exactly like Constantine himself. Deep down, he knew that he should have been frightened, repelled, horrified by what they were, for themselves and to each other, but the truth was that they were both already too mindlessly, hopelessly addicted. Every kiss, every touch, every wound, they were worse than nicotine and alcohol. It was never too much, oh no, it was never enough. They just couldn’t stop.

His teeth sank in the demon’s lower lip and he drank the moan that he got in response. Perhaps it was all wrong, perhaps it would have led to nothing but their mutual misery and destruction, but it didn’t matter, not when they never felt as whole as they did while entangled in that toxic embrace. The magician shifted slightly to be able to push against the Other’s mouth harder, most of his pain already forgotten and replaced by rapidly growing hunger and desire. They were already damned, way beyond redemption. That considered, they might as well make sure that the Hell waiting ahead of them would have been as comfortable as they could make it. Together.


End file.
